


Never Had No One Ever

by dragonQuill907



Series: Smithslock Oneshots [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Consent is Sexy, Fluff, I dunno what else to tag this, John's plans are ruined once again, Love Confessions, M/M, Sherlock is lonely, some angst i guess, they get drunk, tw alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8757100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: After John's thwarted attempt to woo Sherlock (thanks, Irene), he just really needs a drink. Surprisingly, Sherlock feels up to joining him. Unsurprisingly, it just ends up a mess.
Based on the song "Never Had No One Ever" by The Smiths.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm obsessed with both The Smiths and Sherlock, I'm combining the two to make... whatever this is. Each fic is a oneshot that is based on a song by The Smiths.
> 
> Requests for AUs (femlock, teenlock, soulmates, whatever) are welcome because these are going to be kind of random.
> 
> Also, feedback fuels me so leave a comment if you wanna
> 
> Thanks to @EmmaLockWrites for beta'ing as usual :)

 

This fanfiction is based on the song "Never Had No One Ever" by The Smiths. The lyrics are [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/smiths/neverhadnooneever.html) and the song itself is [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ciCv8-HD-5Q)

 

* * *

 

This is supposed to be John’s night. He planned for days. He rehearsed the evening countless times, his mind never straying far from it. John’s anxiety mounted just three days ago and left him thinking of every problem, every roadblock that could possibly steer him off course. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, and John relives it now as Sherlock announces the appearance of their newest client. Apparently, everything John did wasn’t enough.

As he stares down at the Woman blankly, bottle of wine in his hand, John suddenly begins to feel very foolish. Had it been too much to ask for one night without her? One night without that glazed over look in Sherlock’s eyes, without the awkward silence that loomed over them, without wondering what Irene Adler had that John didn't? 

_ Has, _ John corrects himself. He adjusts his grip on the bottle of wine in his hand, swallows hard.

Irene Adler is supposed to be nothing but a memory, but here she is, lying peacefully in Sherlock’s bed, tangible and real and wrong. She’s in Sherlock’s bed.

_ Oh, God. Oh my God, _ John thinks,  _ he’s slept with her. _

So much for the wine.

\---

The Woman is in their flat for what John feels is much too long before she’s killed by terrorists from God-knows-where. It’s sick that John feels relief, and he questions his own morals for a good two days. Sherlock, who has been playing his violin constantly for the past day and a half, doesn’t speak much. John is only surprised because there seems to be a reason this time.

John doesn’t know where Sherlock put Irene’s phone, but he knows it’s at least somewhere in the flat. He debated searching for it, but Sherlock would know immediately what he was after. Anyway, John doesn’t know what he’d do with it if he found it; probably just stare at it, wishing it would disappear - not like that would help anything.

“God,” John mutters to himself, “I need a drink.”

Sherlock doesn’t move from his spot by the window. John hasn’t seen him move at all; he figures that, logically, Sherlock must have moved at least once in the past thirty-six hours, and it must have been when John was asleep. Feeling mostly content with this, John enters the kitchen searching for alcohol.

He’s not proud of it, but he needs it, and he doesn’t particularly care what anyone might think right now. It’s just Sherlock and him in the flat, anyway, isn’t it?

John opens the fridge, and a bottle of wine stares him in the face. It’s not even good wine, but it’s what’s in the fridge, and he doesn’t feel like going out. He stares back at the bottle for a few seconds, pursing his lips at his failed plan: get himself pleasantly buzzed, get  _ Sherlock _ pleasantly buzzed, carelessly confess his affection for the detective, and probably deal with the rejection by drinking himself to sleep with the rest of the wine.

It isn’t one of John’s finer plans, but there had definitely been worse.

John, feeling more pathetic than he had ever felt before, pours some of the wine into a coffee mug. Months ago, whilst John was at a medical conference in Manchester, Sherlock used the three wine glasses in the flat to start cultivating mold. The doctor hasn’t gotten around to buying more. He doesn’t care.

The blond pauses at the counter when the violin fades away. He turns to the sitting room, expecting to find Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa or curled up in his chair by the fireplace, but instead he see Sherlock in the doorway, dressing gown hanging off his thin frame.

“Are you planning on becoming inebriated?” Sherlock asks while eyeing the mug in John’s hand, one eyebrow raised.

“This is your fault, you know. The mug,” John replies. “And no. Not… not entirely.”

“Good.”

John frowns. “Are you trying to tell me how much I can and can’t drink?”

Sherlock gives John a classic  _ wherever-did-you-get-that-idiotic-idea-John?  _ eye roll.

“I was merely inquiring as to how the rest of our night would go. If you have more than three glasses of that wine, you will become more inebriated than I wish to endure.”

“So you are telling me how much I can and can’t drink,” John insists.

“You can drink as much as you like,” Sherlock says. “It’s unlikely we’ll feel any extremely unsettling effects, considering that there’s only one bottle of wine and two of us.”

“We?” John asks. He feels slower than usual when Sherlock raises his brows.

“Yes, John. I’ll be joining you in your emotional drinking.”

“So you admit you have emotions like all us ordinary people!”

Sherlock sighs as if speaking to a toddler. “I did no such thing. One does not need emotions to watch a friend drink emotionally. While a high-functioning one, I remain a sociopath.”

John scoffs. “Sociopath. Yeah.”

“If you could pour me a glass, John…” Sherlock suggests impatiently.

The doctor shrugs and pours more wine into a second mug before handing it off to Sherlock. Their fingers brush during the exchange, and John curses himself for even noticing.

“I haven’t seen you drink before,” he says instead of focusing on the feel of Sherlock’s skin.

“I don’t, generally,” replies Sherlock easily, scowling at the liquid in his mug. “Do you have any idea what this stuff will do to your kidneys?”

John barks out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. Sherlock smirks over the rim of his glass, taking a tentative sip of the alcohol inside. He licks his lips after he drinks, and John’s eyes lock onto the movement of Sherlock’s pale throat as the detective swallows.

“It’s acceptable,” Sherlock declares, nodding decisively. “A bit sweet, but-”

“I’ve seen you eat hundreds-and-thousands directly out of the container,” John says, deadpan. “That’s basically just sugar, and you’re complaining about the wine being too sweet?”

“Perhaps I like an acrid wine to offset my hundreds-and-thousands,” Sherlock retorts, flouncing into the sitting room, mug in hand. He spreads himself out on the sofa, balancing the mug of wine on his stomach. John doesn’t think it’s stable enough to remain there for long, so he plucks it off of Sherlock’s body and places it on the coffee table next to him. Sherlock glares at him halfheartedly. “There was no need to move that.”

“I would believe that if it weren’t obviously false.”

“To which statement are you referring?”

John raises both his eyebrows and smugly replies, “Both of them.”

Sherlock huffs, straightens, and drinks another mouthful of wine as John does the same. The doctor purses his lips immediately after the wine hits his tongue. He swallows discontentedly.

It’s shit wine.

“It’s not as good as you assumed it would be,” Sherlock says.

“No,” John agrees, “it’s really not.”

Sherlock heaves a great sigh before replying, “Tesco isn't far from here. I suppose you could-”

John takes another sip of his wine. “No, that’s all right.”

“Still not over your spat with the telling machine?” Sherlock inquires, smirking devilishly behind his mug.

“Don’t be a dick,” John retorts, the corner of his lips inching upward.

John feels Sherlock’s eye roll more than sees it. The two of them sit in silence for a few moments, each of them caught up in their own thoughts. At least, that’s how John sees it.

“What is the purpose of this?” Sherlock blurts.

“To get drunk,” John replies. “Well, no. Not drunk, exactly, but close to it.”

“Why?”

John doesn’t know how to explain why he wants to get drunk without revealing  _ why _ he wants to get drunk. The doctor’s failed plan flashes through his mind again, and he shakes his head adamantly.

“Not important,” he lies. “I’ll explain later if you ask nicely.”

“After you’re sufficiently inebriated?” Sherlock asks innocently. John doesn’t believe his sincerity.

“Yes, Sherlock,” he sighs. “Ask me again when I’m sufficiently inebriated.”

\---

John feels delightfully tipsy by the time Sherlock takes him up on his offer. He has less than a finger of wine left in his mug. He blinks slowly at Sherlock as he speaks.

“Are you sufficiently inebriated?”

“What?” John asks.

Sherlock sighs. “Why are you emotionally drinking?”

“No reason,” John replies. “Why are you drinking?”

“Isn’t that what one does when…”

John sighs internally. “When they lose someone they’re… interested in?”

The shock and disgust on Sherlock’s face nearly causes John to burst out laughing. Luckily, John’s self-restraint when it comes to Sherlock is as strong as steel.

“Why would I be interested in Irene?” Sherlock asks, his eyebrows knit together.

John’s eyebrows nearly touch his hairline. “You mean you weren’t?”

“No, of course I’m not. How- Because she’s moderately intelligent and a woman, you think I should be wrapped around her finger, as it were?” Sherlock questions, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

John, feeling a bit stupid, protests, “You talked about her an awful lot.”

“She was an interesting case, John.”

The doctor pulls a sour face, and Sherlock narrows his eyes. John can't decide if they're changing colors because he's had too much to drink (unlikely, as he only just finished his first glass of wine), or if they'd always done that.

“What?” John asks defensively.

“One might think you were jealous,” Sherlock points out smugly, smirking at John.

_ Maybe I am, _ John thinks.  _ Even when she’s dead, you can’t get her out of your head. _

“D’you still have her phone?” asks John, desperate to change the subject.

Sherlock hums. “Somewhere around here,” he says. “I’m not quite sure.”

John doesn’t know how to answer that. Why did Sherlock even keep it in the first place?

“Well, this isn’t fair, is it?” John blurts instead. “You’ve barely drunk any wine. I’m not getting pissed before you are!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and downs the rest of his wine in one go despite John’s protests.

“Not that fast!” John scolds as Sherlock grins.

“What’s the matter, John?” questions Sherlock innocently, an incriminating smile on his face.

“Nothing now,” John sighs, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “You’ll be just as pissed as I am in a few minutes. Congratulations.”

“Wasn’t that rather the point?” the detective asks blandly. He holds out his mug to John. “Another, I think.”

John drinks the rest of his wine (he’s not as ridiculous as Sherlock; he had less wine in his glass anyway) and reluctantly reenters the kitchen in search of the remainder of the bottle. If there’s one thing John is grateful for in this moment, it’s his ability to hold his liquor. Sherlock doesn’t do anything by halves, and, although John’s never seen Sherlock drink more than half a glass of wine at Angelo’s, he has no doubt Sherlock will want to see if they can finish the whole bottle themselves. John has no doubt that they’ll be able to.

Sherlock is lying on the sofa when John gets back to the sitting room. He reaches out for the bottle, but John snatches it away.

“I don’t think so,” he says. Instead, he pours more wine into Sherlock’s glass. “You never answered my question.”

“You never answered mine,” Sherlock retorts.

“I'm emotionally drinking because I want to,” John replies readily. “Why are  _ you _ drinking?”

“If you had let me finish…” Sherlock grumbles. He takes a swing of wine, and John is slightly concerned about how long it lasts. “Isn't that what one does when an associate drinks?”

John cocks his head. “Friends don't let friends drink alone? Is that what you're telling me?”

“Is that not correct?” asks the detective. John smiles faintly and turns away from the sofa, but a discontented noise coming from Sherlock catches his attention. The taller man lets his gaze fall to his lap and draws his knees up to his chest. “Sit with me, John?”

The doctor smiles faintly and settles on the other side of the sofa, and Sherlock relaxes noticeably. He stretches his legs out until his toes are digging under John’s thigh.

“You don’t drink much, do you?” inquires John, who is definitely more sober than Sherlock is right now.

As John suspected, Sherlock shakes his head loosely. “No,” he says. “Mummy used to make me drink champagne at her Christmas parties, but she stopped after I wretched in her potted plants when I was... seventeen years old.”

“And at Angelo’s?” John asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t drink to get drunk.” With that, he takes another monstrous gulp of wine. John is tempted to tell him to slow down, but he wants to see how pissed Sherlock can get. If this is the most relaxed the other man becomes, John will eat his trousers.

“I like Angelo,” Sherlock says casually, licking excess wine off his lips. “He seems to like me, too. He makes good ravioli.”

John nods as Sherlock digs his feet farther under John’s leg.

“He does like you, Sherlock.”

The detective hums happily and raises his mug to his lips. John does the same, drinking his wine slowly. He doubts half a bottle of this will be enough to get him properly hammered, but it’s worth the shot, isn’t it? John stares into space for a bit, still feeling bloody pathetic for failing to just confess his feelings like a  _ man _ already.

“That’s nice,” Sherlock says. He drinks until his mug is upside down, draining the rest of his wine from the glass. John is getting concerned now, especially since he’s only halfway done with his own wine. “Nobody likes me.”

Oh, God. Sherlock’s an emotional drunk, isn’t he? It makes a perfect sort of sense, really. When else is he supposed to let loose if not when he’s drunk off his arse on… two glasses of wine.  _ Already.  _ Jesus Christ.

“That’s not true,” John says.

Sherlock nods. “Yes, it is. No one’s ever liked me. I’m alone.”

His heart aches for Sherlock in this moment. “Plenty of people like you, Sherlock. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Irene liked you. Irene liked you a lot, actually.”

“I didn’t like Irene,” Sherlock quips. He reaches out for the bottle of wine on the coffee table. “D’you need more wine?”

John shakes his head and takes the wine from Sherlock’s hands.

“I don’t think you need any more right now,” John says. “Now, what’s this about not liking Irene? Didn’t you… Weren’t you two, er, intimate?”

Sherlock starts to giggle, and a corner of John’s mouth quirks up.

“No, John,” the detective snickers. “She’s a lesbian, and I’m gay.”

John furrows his brows. “I’m not sure you meant to tell me that.”

Leaning over John to grab the bottle of wine, Sherlock says, “Haven’t you figured that out yet? I thought it was obvious.”

The doctor freezes as Sherlock flops over him, his arm stretched as far from Sherlock as it can be. John has a lap full of drunken detective, and he doesn’t know what to do. What he does know is that he needs more wine.

“She… She said she’d have you on the table right there,” John protests, pointing uselessly at the desk. “I was there when she said it.”

Sherlock shrugs. He’s still in John’s lap. “I’ve never had… no one ever. I think. Yes.”

John’s eyes widen. “You just used a double negative. That’s it. We’re done with the alcohol.”

“But John!” whines Sherlock as the doctor places the bottle of wine on the floor somewhat out of Sherlock’s reach. The detective nearly leaps to the floor to retrieve it.

“But nothing!” John replies, holding Sherlock back. “You’ve had way too much wine.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not affected by what you drank,” Sherlock says defiantly, settling more comfortably in John’s lap. His ass lines up very neatly with John’s prick, and Sherlock snickers as John shifts uncomfortably beneath him.

John rolls his eyes. “I’m not a lightweight!” he laughs. “I'm sober enough to keep from- You're a virgin?”

Sherlock's cheeks pinken attractively. He looks up at John through his eyelashes. If Sherlock wasn't drunk, John would think he’s being coy.

“I've never had no one ever,” Sherlock repeats, ignoring the double negative. “In any sense, really.” He starts giggling again, and John narrows his eyes. “It’s been twenty years, seven months, and twenty-seven days.”

“Since?” John prods.

“Since I’ve had someone. Anyone.”

“But- What?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I haven’t had a friend in over twenty years,” he says casually.

“You’re thirty-four,” John replies. He can’t seem to say anything intelligent. Maybe he’s drunker than he thought.

“I had Mycroft until I was thirteen and he became a git,” Sherlock explains, “and then last year I met you.”

“Oh,” John says. It’s a bad idea, but he finishes off the rest of the wine in his mug. “You know, Sherlock-”

“Oh,  _ brilliant, _ John.” Sherlock beams widely and reaches for the bottle again. “I’ll have more wine now that you need some too.”

“No, no,” John says. “You’ve had enough, all right?”

“This is horribly unfair of you, John. It’s not my fault my tolerance level is lower than yours.”

John rolls his eyes. “Yes, you’re right. I’m absolutely terrible to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen comically. “John, I never meant to imply that you’re anything other than wonderful to me.”

Unused to Sherlock expressing such emotion, John averts his eyes. The doctor only looks back when Sherlock removes himself from his lap, eyes cast down.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” sighs the detective, moving away.

John grabs the sleeve of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “No, listen, Sherlock, I didn’t- I never said that, did I? Come back over here.”

Sherlock eyes John warily before shifting closer to him and laying his head on John’s shoulder. John doesn’t want to take advantage of Sherlock’s pliant, affectionate state, but it’s sort of difficult when the detective is plastered all over him.

“I want more wine,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s shoulder. The blond shakes his head, and the detective sighs again. “Whatever you say, John.”

It’s not a good time for admitting anything, but the wine and Sherlock’s proximity are starting to get to John’s head, and he speaks before he can stop himself.

“Sherlock, you’re not alone anymore,” he says. “I mean, you’ve got me now, yeah?”

The detective stiffens beside him. 

“Do you mean that?” he questions softly.

“Course I do,” John affirms, holding Sherlock tightly to his side. “You’ve always got me.”

Sherlock melts into John’s one-armed embrace, craning his neck to gaze at John. The detective must see something there, John thinks, because it’s hardly a moment before Sherlock’s in John’s lap again, straddling him comfortably. The pressure of Sherlock’s thighs against his own is gentle but not unnoticeable. John finds comfort in the proximity.

“Er, Sherlock-”

John’s confession is cut off by the pressure of Sherlock’s lips against his own. The detective wraps his arms around John’s neck, and John grabs the detective’s hips to keep him from tumbling off the sofa.

_ It’s purely for safety, _ John assures himself. He doesn’t want Sherlock getting hurt, after all.

The detective licks John’s bottom lip, and John returns the action eagerly, opening his own mouth and exploring Sherlock’s with his tongue. Sherlock gasps and runs his fingers through the short hairs on the back of John’s neck. Suddenly, the blond is on his back, and Sherlock’s lying atop him, his elegant hands underneath John’s jumper. John, feeling a bit put out, quickly maneuvers them so they are facing each other side-by-side.

They’re a mess of lips and tongue and teeth and hands, and the doctor’s never been happier. It’s only when Sherlock starts rocking against him that John thinks they might have a problem.

“Sherlock, we should stop,” he says quietly, tearing his lips away from Sherlock’s.

“That’s a terrible idea,” Sherlock replies, hooking a leg over John’s waist. He smears his lips over John’s neck, too tipsy to hold up any pretense of coordination.

“No, Sherlock,” John says. “You’re way too pissed to only have had two glasses of wine.”

“John,” Sherlock whines. “I’ve been waiting so long… You have to let me touch you.”

“Consent, Sherlock. You're too drunk to give it.”

“Ridiculous. I resent the fact that you imply that I'm operating with anything other than perfect clarity and coordination.” Sherlock fumbles with the button on John’s jeans.

“Can you wait another night?” John asks urgently, bringing Sherlock's hands up to his lips. “Don’t you want to remember it?”

Sherlock sighs quietly into John's skin. “Promise you won't change your mind tomorrow.”

John shakes his head. “Never, love.”

“Fine, then.”

John grins and tugs Sherlock impossibly closer to him. He lets his arms settle wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, one leg between the detective’s. John rests his chin on Sherlock's hair, giving him a quick peck on the forehead. Hugging Sherlock closer to him, John breathes in deeply, more content than he’d normally like to admit. The detective snores softly against his throat, and John realizes that he wouldn’t mind experiments in the kitchen or questionable residue in their wine glasses or even waking up at bloody two o’clock in the morning to run after Sherlock on a case as long as he could come home and hold Sherlock in his arms like this every day for the rest of his life.

John hopes Sherlock doesn’t hate him tomorrow morning.

\---

When John wakes up, Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, completely dressed and as stoic as ever. His lips are pursed, and his long fingers are steepled in front of his lips. The detective looks paler than usual, to which John credits the other man’s expected hangover. John sighs and sits up straight, eying the glass of water on the coffee table.

“For me?” he asks stupidly. Sherlock nods silently, and John drinks half the glass in one go. His head is fuzzy, but it’s nowhere near as bad as when he goes out with Lestrade or Stamford. He’s unreasonably grateful for that fact. As for Sherlock… 

“How’re you feeling?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Fine.”

John raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Have you eaten anything yet?”

The detective shoots John a condescending glance, and John rolls his eyes.

“You stupid git,” he says affectionately, “you’ve got to get something in your stomach if you want to feel all right after  _ all that drinking _ you did yesterday.”

“My body is transport, John, and I only had two glasses. I remain largely unaffected.”

John scoffs. “‘Remain?’ Sure. You know your brain is part of your body, right? It’s an organ just like your liver or your kidneys. Alcohol affects your body equals alcohol affects your brain. I’m making you some toast.”

John stands only a bit unsteadily and makes his way to the kitchen. He’s stopped in the doorway by a throat clearing. He turns and look expectantly at Sherlock, whose eyes are cast down.

“I apologize for my behavior last night,” he says quietly. John frowns. “I never meant to… to make you uncomfortable, John.”

“It’s not a big deal, Sherlock,” John says. “I can sleep on the sofa for one night without breaking my back. I’m not  _ that _ old.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightens. “That is not what I was referencing, and you know it.”

“Then what  _ are _ you talking about?” questions the doctor. He just wants to take a piss and make some toast. Is that too much to ask?

“Coming out and forci-”

“Wait, Sherlock, stop-”

“Do you even remember?” accuses Sherlock, his bright blue eyes narrowed.

John rolls his own eyes. “Yes, of course I bloody remember what happened last night! Do  _ you?” _

Sherlock is quiet for a second. “I don’t remember… exact details, but I know what I did.”

“What you did was get drunk off two glasses of wine, tell me you’re gay, and snog me senseless,” John says anyway. “The only thing that kept us from shagging was that you were too far gone to give anything resembling consent. Do you regret any of that?”

Sherlock’s icy veneer cracks, and, for a split second, John can see how vulnerable his flatmate is in this moment. He sighs quietly and settles into his own armchair, facing Sherlock expectantly.

“I’m uncertain of how to answer that,” Sherlock says. “If I say no, you’ll leave. If I say yes, you’ll stay, but I assume you want the truth.”

“So you have… feelings for me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies softly. “I’ve tried extensively to ignore them. It doesn’t work. You are… essential to me, John. I can’t help it.”

John licks his lips nervously. “And these are, er, permanent feelings, then?”

“It seems to be the case.”

Sherlock’s eyes are resigned, but John’s heart is singing.

“And you really think you forced yourself on me, huh?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock nods and looks away. John takes a deep breath. “Can I tell you a secret?”

The detective shrugs noncommittally. 

“Well, while you’re sober, we’re pretty much a match for physical strength, I’d say,” John begins. “When you’re drunk, though… you’re about as strong as a wet noodle. I could’ve pushed you away any time I liked.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

John shrugs. “I didn’t push you away.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, his eyes wide and lips parted.

“You mean-”

The doctor nods.

“No, you didn’t force yourself on me,” he assures, “and yes, I’m, uh, very much in love with you.” John scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, mentally berating himself.

_ You snogged him last night, and you’re embarrassed now? _

Sherlock sits back in shock, blinking rapidly. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. John sighs and stands. He pecks Sherlock on the nose, holding him in place with a hand on the back of his neck.

“I’m going to the loo, and then you’re eating some toast,” he says decisively. “We can talk about this once we’re done eating, if you want.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. John smiles fondly at his detective before turning away. He’s in the hallway when he hears his name called from the sitting room.

“John?”

“Hm, Sherlock?”

There’s a slight pause before Sherlock calls, “I love you too.”

John grins to himself and disappears into the bathroom before he does something stupid like sweep Sherlock Holmes off his feet. That simply wouldn’t do.

Sweeping handsome detectives of their feet is much more of an after-breakfast activity, isn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always so torn between using a really sweet lyric as the basis for these cute fics or using the entire lyrics/feeling of the song as the basis and ending up with angst to the tenth power.
> 
> Recently I've been in kind of a rut, so I'm really not writing anything of quality in a reasonable amount of time.  
> Like 5 months ago I started writing a potterlock, and it's like 20k right now, but I'm not sure if I wanna continue it anymore so there's that.  
> I started writing this fairytale au that I was really excited about, but here I am, not writing it.  
> My nano novel!!! It's so bad and like not written at all!! So there's also that!
> 
> So what I'm saying is that I'm trying my best but it's really tough to write anything good enough for anyone to read right now.
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry for long end notes but I wanted to keep you guys posted since I talk about this like all the time!


End file.
